


out of nowhere you came

by starvels (dinosaur)



Series: continuing drabblefest [4]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship to Developing Relationship and back again, Healing, M/M, Memory Loss, Relationship Negotiation, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 01:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16379024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaur/pseuds/starvels
Summary: The short story is, Tony comes back from a mission.The long story is,Tonydoesn’t come back from a mission and Steve struggles to figure out which of them he's trying to piece back together, in the aftermath.





	out of nowhere you came

**Author's Note:**

> 4/31 oktober drabblefest: domestic memory loss  
> this was actually inspired by an old bingo square of: worst case scenario. 
> 
> i always think that for steve&tony, the worst case scenario will never so much be death, but absence from one another – do not go where I cannot follow, type love. you know? this is a bit of trope subversion in that i wanted to explore when someone realizes what they thought was the worst, is in fact, not. so, look for hope here, friends!

 

 

It starts four years before, with a what-if conversation.

The _if_ aspect ends with an interplanetary callout for Iron Man.

The rest begins:

First, mission silence.

Then, Steve, opening the door.

A not; not _Tony_ , in the doorway.

Finally, the instant, Knowing.

It’s stupid, but. He cries.

The _what_ conversation continues for a long time, after.

 

\--

 

It’s disorienting to be the one helping Tony out with the facts of the future.

He has a cultural grasp, can intuit social cues and references like missing limbs, but the technological things – CPU power, state of solar cells, transistors – are wiped clean.

It hurts worse, of course. It’s more of Tony lost, of course.

Thursday, three weeks After, Steve is swallowing despair, doing everything the doctor says he has to.

It’s not the first time Steve has had to reach for Tony’s arm, to stop him from disappearing into the workshop. It’s not the first time he’s had to say, “That already exists,” to pause, to finish with, “You already made it.”

It won’t be the last.

 

\--

 

It’s not just that Tony is the same Tony from the past, it’s that he has the same thoughts, says the same things, wants to make the same things.

Frustration takes root in Tony’s shoulders. The way he makes is different now, comes with a stop gap at the beginning for a database inquiry.

 _Have I already made_ this _, Jarvis?_ Tony will type silently.

6 prototypes, Jarvis pulls up.

Steve watches the curls of Tony’s beautiful familiar fingers into unsteady claws and paints him into sunshine instead, draws him in armor, in the air.

He stays back, though.

Touching isn’t yet earned.

This Tony doesn’t know him. Doesn’t want him that way. Not yet – but maybe. Ever.

 

\--

 

They’re strangers in their own house. Steve&Tony’s things around them, but Steve and Tony walking around them, around the floor of woven eggshells and burnt out metal masks.

“It happened before,” Tony says apropos, one day.

“Not,” _yes,_ “– just.”

 _Some of your mind, hurtful, self-justified, painful months of your decisions. Not_ you _. I was thankful and now it makes me want to puke. You erased yourself, you chose that. This –_

Tony watches him.

Deep breath.

“Only a year.” Steve finally manages.

A nod.

“How did you work past it?”

“We didn’t,” Steve says, shocked into answering without filtering.

Eyes narrowed, Tony watches him.

“We were going to therapy,” Steve’s fingers remember the soft leather couch, the tremble of Tony’s hands talking about the slap-shock of coming back to Steve, to Steve hating him, one year gone. Erasure hadn’t been _that Tony_ ’s choice.

Could Steve have forgiven another Tony for taking away their both choices?

“Are we still?” Tony asks and Steve focuses back on him. The soft purple sweater’s too big. He’s still losing weight.

Are we still?

Are _we_ still?

Are we still _trying_?

“We,” Steve swallows, can’t stop the hot rush of tears, “can be.”

Tony watches him again, watches him cry again.

Steve’s an ugly crier, there’s stuff here (this space, the tentative living room neutral zone, the underwater photo on the entry wall Tony took last month with Rhodes that Steve put in place of the one of Cap and Iron Man in uniform in Nebraska) to endear him to Tony, but not a lot to make him try like that again, be like that again. Steve’s already lost, already lost Tony but he’s so terrified –

“Okay,” Tony says slowly, rolling the word over his tongue. “I’ll find the contact files.”

And Steve swallows more tears and knows better than to offer to print the files from his own computer.

 

\--

 

There’s a lot of Important Doctor Appointments. A lot of visitors checking in on the check-ups. Their house develops a revolving door of well wishes and sprouts of new, careful laughter. Tony’s still social, just. Quieter. Smoother. Unbothered by saying no to people he doesn’t want reaching out to him. 

Tony still likes the same people, most of the time, though. He doesn’t have to say no often.

Pepper is firm, particular back and he matches well. Carol tells him frankly about AA meetings, asks if he wants to go to the same one or not. Somehow, she makes it sound not judging, not carrying that age old bitterness from the team intervention when she was on the opposite side.

 _Where did you learn to do that_ , Steve wants to ask.

“Nah, prefer the one on Thursdays, more vets,” Carol says, nonchalant leaning against the kitchen counters and Tony nods, files away the information. He’s eating cheerios with a spoon, leaving his side open towards the front door.

“How do you think I’d do?” Tony asks, calmly.

Carol takes a deep breath and catches Steve’s eye for a second and then continues, “How the hell am I supposed to know, Stark? If you’re an addict, it’ll be obvious eventually, won’t it?”

And Tony, Tony goddamn laughs. “Yeah, alright. Can’t hurt to go.”

Steve wants to scream.

Holds himself in.

Rhodes is already “Rhod _ey_!” again, somehow, but different.

Rhodes gets arm touches, gets asked to go on outings to the beach and to the space museum and Steve knows he cries as well. There’s red around his ever Tony-fond eyes, sometimes, and Steve tries to stay back, tries to not push because Tony doesn’t flutter with worry over Rhodes’ aching heart, he just. Spends time with him and smiles at him gently and it’s not seamless like before but. It’s not a minefield and Steve knows he deserves that.

But _Steve_ is still a minefield –

“I’m a horrible partner,” Steve tells the therapist, and watches the way their eyes flicker to suppress a roll. He looks down at his picked and scarred hands so he doesn’t analyze their body language. “What kind of partner wants their partner to _have_ issues?”

“You’ve bonded over shared trauma with your partner before,” Pause, for the weight of Captain America and Iron Man between them and the world, “It’s been a method of both negotiation and communication. You feel you’ve lost a device for intimacy. That’s not horrible.”

“He’s happier,” Steve says, quietly. “I should have known, then.”

He was always happier not knowing.

Peggy, Bucky, Tony. They’re always happier not knowing and Steve, Steve’s like a goddamn TV set, blaring out from the walls, forcing them to see, forcing them to watch their own misery, for the sake of his own ratings.

 _I’d look better in your eyes,_ Steve thinks as Tony watches a clip about them, about them in that battle field in New York – _if you knew._ _If you knew I thought you were the monster. I’d look like the righteous one, if you knew that you’d agreed._

His body rejects the thought, churning his breakfast in on himself.

Tony places one hand on his back when he’s crouched over the toilet and it feels like a crime to take comfort from it.

Steve still can’t let him go.

Can’t let go of the possibility of them.

Tony doesn’t remember, doesn’t leave.

 

\--

 

Steve dreams about it. Dreams that one day he teleports home and Tony (his Tony, the Tony that has a Steve) is there at the counter, covered in blueberry remains and holograms, and Tony looks up and says, “Hey, remembered when you cried the first time I kissed you?”

And Steve shakes his head with a smile and says, “How could I forget, you remindin’ me every day?”

And Tony grins too wide and pulls Steve in by his belt and whispers, “Let’s remember just one more,” against Steve’s lips.

And then Steve wakes up.

Tony never says anything pointed, which Steve finds himself grateful for.

Eventually, though, they do talk about it.

“Do you want to tell me about it all?” Tony asks, that careful blank way when the answer means a lot. That, at least, remains.

Under Steve’s hands, the clay on the wheel is almost too dry. It’s beginning to fight being molded.

“I want to do what you want, Tony,” Steve finally decides on, focuses his gaze on the lopsided vase.

“Ah yes,” Tony says, rueful, “Another thing I don’t know.”

They talk to the therapist, after that, separately.

Steve cries some more.

Tony locks up the lab and starts reading more poetry. 

 

\--

 

Bucky and Tony get along better than ever before.

It burns.

“Let me just get my jacket,” Steve grits out, angry with himself, angry with Bucky for being late and Tony for being early and the two of them talking quietly in the hallway about apple pie.

When he’s alone with each of them, it’s fine. But this, this grating reminder of the ways that Tony has come back into his life and things are better than before when Steve’s life is hanging around his dirty shoes like entrails he can’t shove back into his skin, screeching pain, scooped out hollow space entire his entire fucking body – he hates.

He hates that no one seems to miss Tony’s memories as much as him. Hates that maybe he did this to himself by making sure they were a secret at the start for so long, making sure Tony was so irreparably his and his alone.

 _You used to want to give your everything for me,_ Steve thinks as Tony watches him scurrying Bucky out the door. _I wouldn’t let you, but I loved it. I felt like my most powerful because of your love._

The slanted set of Tony’s mouth isn’t new. But it doesn’t mean the same thing.

“Everything ‘kay?” Steve manages to force himself to ask.

Silence, curling into familiar emptiness between them.

Then, Tony sweeps his hand like breaking across the wave of it and says, “No,” says, “Enjoy your game. We can talk about it at the doc’s on Tuesday,” and just fucking goes to make himself dinner.

As if dealing with their problems was always that easy.

And all it took was forgetting, to know.

 

\--

 

That Tuesday is rough.

The therapist running them in circles back and back on themselves to intersect emotion and intent and need and providing. Steve needs to communicate more actively. Tony needs to consider more deeply. It used to be – not simpler but. Now, it’s apologizing and asking questions, instead of just apologizing and knowing.

Learning a new OS, Steve would say, if Tony cared about technology these days.

It’s not bad, it’s not good.

“It just is,” Steve says to Sam, as he spots for him in the gym.

Sam finishes the rep with one eyebrow raised and lets Steve delicately thunk the bar back into the place.

“Sure,” he says, mildly.

He sits up, muscles bunching and they eye each other for a moment. Testing whether this will be the moment Steve cries this week.

It’s not.

Sam takes the towel Steve hands him and they head out of the floor.

“Think,” Sam says slowly, “I’ll take a look at those old Ultimates files Carol sent over the other day.”

“Okay,” Steve says, around a suddenly thick throat.

They both know Steve’s not going into space anymore.

 

\--

 

Occasionally, Tony will meet someone again.

“Hi, I used to be Tony Stark,” Tony says, around a small smile and people tend to either take it or leave it.

It’s a toss-up always. Half a game of whether the person ever wished for Tony Stark to disappear, and half a question of what’s on in the news that day – whether a civilian Tony with a worn sweater and a tea latte is the biggest deal.

Used to be, that kind of reliance on the kindness of others would have made Tony a wreck, would have had him shaky and pulling on sunglasses.

Tony pats Steve’s hand now, shrugs at people that put up a fuss.

Takes his pills, goes to the doctor, reads, seems quietly okay.

Steve struggles to keep up with him.

 

\--

 

Steve asks the doctor just once. Just once.

“I don’t want to give you false hope, Captain.”

Just once.

 

\--

 

Time passes.

Therapy sessions come and go like tsunamis.

Steve builds up things in his head only for Tony to break them down.

“Are we ever gonna talk about shit, just us?” Tony asks. He’s making carbonara, reading from a Spanish cookbook, wearing contacts because his cornea’s been bothering him lately.

Steve doesn’t know what he means, mumbles it around the broccolini in his mouth.

Tony doesn’t let it go. He turns, pushes his hand down on the tablet in Steve’s hand and doesn’t even grimace at the feel of the screen.

His eyes are sharp, electric.

He could be Iron Man, metal mask and burning eyes. For years, this is what drew Steve to him, the connection that kept him at the edge of love, of faith, of orgasm.

Yearning thrums along Steve’s pulse.

Tony notices, pauses a fraction, then pulls back and turns to the pot, shoulders unhappy. “I’m not going to fight you and I don’t want to have to get in your face for you to listen. If you won’t – “ Steve’s pulse carries into his ears, “If you don’t want this –“

“I do,” Steve says, and closes his eyes the pain that causes, saying that here, just as a response, not a declaration made in vows.

A pot burbling into the space between them.

“I’m sorry,” Steve tries, testing the words on the tip of his tongue, “for not talking more. I don’t mean to. I can’t help,” he swallows, “Finding you attractive, like that.”

“Pushy?” Tony says quietly.

Burning, Steve thinks. Powerful. Partner.

He’s not sure what to say.

“I’m never going to be Iron Man again, Steve.”

And Steve knows, he knows, he knew this was coming – Tony locking down the lab, Tony turning his attention to languages, to arts to cultivation of roses and tiny budding futures inside mighty kids, it’s just –

 _I miss you, Shellhead_ , Steve thinks.

He’s yearning for not just one lover, but two.

He’s crying, without meaning to.

“Aw, fuck,” Tony whispers and the stoves makes a click.

Steve’s holding his breath in his chest, forcing shallow inhales that catch. He feels like he’s coming lose, coins and rubble rattle out of the pockets of his heart.

“Steve,” Tony says, closer, directed towards him, now.

Steve pulls his arm across his face, lets the tablet fall where ever, it doesn’t matter. Heat builds insistently behind his eyes.

“You feel things so strong, don’t you,” Tony breathes, like it’s not meant for Steve to hear. He can’t help the jerking sort of nod in response, though. He does, he does. He didn’t know until Tony just how much but –

“I want,” his voice crackles, “to be good to you, but I don’t know – I don’t know how. Pleas –“ he buries his mouth against his own shirtsleeve.

Quiet, and the heat of Tony waning, waxing, closer, a hand so familiar unknown, touching to his forearm.

“Steve,” Tony whispers, “I’m not mad. I’m just, confused. Trying to talk.”

“I know,” Steve says – sobs.

Pause.

“I should, “ Tony’s breathing is heavy, “have said that kinder, I’m sorry.”

“S’not,” Steve snuffles into his arm, “Like I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well. Could’ve at least tried to ease it in.”

“I could have asked,” Steve says.

There’s a sound like shuffling, Tony doing something, mute.

Steve finally pulls his arm away to peek at Tony. The beautiful black-blue milky-way expanse of him. He’s shaking his head a bit, looking sorry, looking like he’s trying so hard.

Tony’s eyes catch on the wetness of Steve’s face.

Steve smiles back sadly, scrubs at it a bit.

He’s tried to keep this kind of care off of Tony’s shoulders. It’s not his job anymore. And it’s Steve’s job to make him know it isn’t.

“Sorry,” he says, “I want you to feel safe talking to me. To bring stuff up here, not just in therapy.”

“I do,” Tony stumbles over his words. Steve’s breath catches and he forces it steady. Tony’s inflection, when he’s overwhelmed is different now, less cobbled together iron core, more wavy glass. “And I do appreciate you working with me on this from the get go, giving me my own room but staying here, letting me stay here.”

“Where else would you go?” Steve asks, confused, a little hurt.

Here is home.

“That’s the point,” Tony says quietly, and his lips press to the top of Steve’s head. “That’s just the point.”

 

\--

 

Routines are hard.

It’s easy to say they’re going to form them, easy to say they’re build them together, but Tony’s got a black hole in his head and Steve remembers Tony falling into them, them both crawling out of them. PTSD is weighted to one side now, but Tony naps sporadically, everywhere, and wakes up thinking he’s in a different city.

“Routines are hard,” their therapist repeats and for once Tony looks just like Steve, wanting to dunk them in the Hudson.

“Yes,” Steve says diplomatically and stands up. They’ve still got five minutes left but, “I’ve got an early appointment. Thanks for your time.” He glances at Tony, who pops up without another word.

“See you next week,” Tony says, and slides out of the door while Steve’s still making niceties with the therapist.

“Ugh,” Tony groans when Steve joins him in the lobby.

“Ugh,” Steve says back.

Tony waits for him to catch up and then leans back into Steve’s body, while still walking.

Steve stumbles his next step, but catches Tony with a hand to his lower back, presses back carefully. They keep moving walking away from the office. Hand very, very still, pulse thrumming through his fingertips, Steve follows. And Tony –

 Tony sighs and relaxes back into his touch.

He’s missed this so much. The soft give of Tony’s muscles, the warmth of him, trustingly put into Steve’s palms.

“Y’okay?” Steve murmurs, unwilling to move away until Tony says he has to.

“Yeah,” Tony murmurs back. “Tired. Thanks for lying.”

“Mm. Course,” Steve catches a glance of the side of his face. His eyes are squinted. Migraine meds, then. “Let’s get you home.”

“Sounds good,” Tony yawns and Steve leads them gently on.

 

\--

 

“Look at this,” Tony says, leaning over Steve’s shoulder to show him some sort of fern-like plant, in a dirty terracotta pot.

“This you and Riri’s new project?”

“No, that’s a birthday present.” Steve laughs and Tony tucks his chin a bit and grins back, “This is a really ridiculous strain that’s been bothering the Intellicrops people lately. They sent over this, well not this but –“

Tony rolls into a story and Steve rolls his neck to watch more of him, the way he leans closer and closer. He lets Steve hold the pot when his arm starts to shake and instead curls the arm under his head to prop on the back of the couch. The other goes around Steve, rubbing his thumb back and forth across his far shoulder.

Pleasure swirls somewhere North of Steve’s stomach.  He doesn’t follow the story very well – Tony switching to German for some of the more exact terms doesn’t help, but he follows Tony’s enthusiasm perfectly.

More concise, now. Movements limited. Tone always, brilliantly warm.

He’s gorgeous.

Tony trails off.

Steve’s smiling. He looks down at the pot, the seemingly impossible plant poking its head right out of the soil. Glances back up to see Tony watching him, cheek smushed by his own arm.

“What?” Tony asks.

“Nothing,” Steve says quietly, “Like hearing you talk, s’all.”

Tender as a newborn sun, Tony smiles at him.

 

\--

 

Tony pauses on his way past the living room. A frown scurries across his face.

“You ok-“ Steve starts to ask.

“What are you still doing here?”

“Gave the call to West Coast. Kate, that’s Bishop, has never been to Switzerland.”

The frown stays on Tony’s face.

“You’re still having dizzy spells,” Steve says quieter, then, even lower, “I don’t want you to be alone.”

Tony’s throat works too hard for a moment. The book in Steve’s hand feels heavy, feels full of things he could say, but he thinks. This is enough.

“Thank you,” Tony says, so quiet it feels more like a caress on Steve’s hyper-sensitive skin.

He shivers just a little bit and Tony eyes him.

They’re quiet, watching each other.

“Maybe,” Tony starts, slowly walking forward, “we could go on a date.”

“Maybe we could,” Steve says, past and present and future clamoring for a place in his throat, his rumble-tumble hardy heart, “We should.”

He closes the book and reaching out for Tony’s hand. His lungs push at the cage of his lungs.

 

\--

 

“You’re doing very well, Mr. Stark,” the doctor says.

Steve catches the eye roll Tony makes behind the doc’s back, with a half-grin of his own.

They get ice cream on the way home, and it’s all sweet and no bitter.

 

\--

 

The world fades in and out.

Black-red, quiet-loud.

Shouting.

Coconut, not metal.

Is that right?

Steve makes some sort of sound.

“Shh.”

He’s laying. Across. Soft, firm.

Waking.

“Hey,” the shh says.

Ow.

Breathe deep, Steve thinks. Orders. Himself.

Air, sluggish in his brain, finally, finally pain easing.

Coconut still in front of him.

Tony, Steve knows, now.

He makes a sound.

Consciousness, _ow_.

“You took a hit to the head,” Tony says quietly.

 _Oh_ , Steve thinks. _Okay_.

Tony’s still quiet. Quieter, now, than he’s ever been before. In a way he’s never been.

Steve can’t get over that, can’t get over him.

 _You_ , Steve thinks.

Tony is touching his temple, soft, gentle, caring. “Steve,” he says, like it isn’t the first time.

 _Hit head_ , Steve thinks.

“’m ok?” Steve mumbles.

“Gonna be.”  

Steve pats his hand at the blankets, flops it at Tony like a salmon plea. A sigh and a rolled set of eyes meets him, but Tony reaches back, holds his hand down tight.

“Were worried?” Steve relaxes under his hands.

“No,” Tony says first, then, “Yes,” finally, breathes out a, “I’ve learned to love you three times now, haven’t I? Could always do it again.”

And Steve uses up what little air he has, to laugh and laugh and laugh.

 _Oh Tony_ , he hums a few hours later, half-way to healed and hand safely in Tony’s sleep messy hair, _I was the one that learned first. You’re the one still teaching me._

 _They’ll have to learn to love me. You did._ Steve remembers.

Is Steve the same person who learned, is the question?

Tony’s a person he’s never been, is probably the answer.

They both are still becoming.

 

\--

 

“It’s normal for it to feel like loss,” the therapist says, one individual session, months down this new road.

Loss. Capitalized.

Steve almost cancelled this session because he’s been in the field 8 hours and in paperwork 3 and he’s still got red in the lines of his hands and a hefty chunk of glass healing itself out of his wrist as Steve watches. He’s tired. He’s tired of this, of leaving Tony with his ferns and concerned eyes and coming back home like this.

He should have cancelled.

“I don’t want to talk about Tony like he’s dead.”

It’s too loud in the room. Bared and booming. But there it is. And there, Steve won’t go.

There’s a Riley poem about that, Steve thinks _. I cannot say, I will not say that he is dead, he is merely away._

“Okay,” the therapist said finally. It sounds like resignation.

Steve bares his teeth in a semblance of a grin. Fighting comes more easily to him than resignation ever will.

Loving Tony comes easier than them both.

“What would you say to him?” Tony asked him, early on, immediately after it became clear Steve was never going to get the opportunity to shout at Tony for losing his memory being thrown by a suddenly stopping spaceship.

“Something obnoxious, probably,” Steve had said.

It made Tony smile, at least.

But later, later Steve goes to the doctor appointments and teaches Tony about his own home AI systems and they both retire for good, for their own good and they redo the kitchen in yellow because Tony of now likes it best and Steve knows the right answer.

He whispers it against the back of Tony’s neck. “I’d say I love both of you.” _I’d say I’m glad you’ve never left me alone. I’d say I’m glad you are home – my home._

No matter, forever.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!
> 
> tumblr post for this fic [[here]](https://starvels.tumblr.com/post/179323237036/). & if you're interested in winning some of my words for some real good causes, i'm participating in marvel trumps hate [[here]](https://mthofferings.tumblr.com/post/179230540506/)! <33


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